


what's left of me

by ketabat



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove is an Asshole™, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, First Kiss, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mathematical Failure Steve Harrington, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, Post-Season/Series 02, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Build, Smart Billy Hargrove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21872245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketabat/pseuds/ketabat
Summary: Steve swipes his tongue over his lips, giving their surroundings a cursory look before settling his eyes back on Billy. “I need you to tutor me,” he lets out, confident, head held high.Billy’s brows rise. He gives him another once-over, languid and feather-ruffling. “Couldn’t hear you there, Harrington,” he says. “A little louder.”.or, steve's a dead loss at maths and billy takes it upon himself to help him out. out of the goodness of his heart.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 50
Kudos: 553





	what's left of me

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY
> 
> tbh the only reason i started this was because i wanted steve to have a glasses kink bc of billy in glasses but it all spiralled out of control and turned angsty instead of nsfw hhh. anyways. unbeta'd. so all mistakes are mine. please heed the warnings in the tags! :)

Steve’s faced monsters. Literal fucking monsters. Slimy, greyish, flower-faced _dogs_ whose sounds spike fear-laced _excitement_ in him. The anxiety he feels when one of his teachers walks in with a stack of test papers tucked beneath their arm is something else completely. Something made of raw nerves. Has him in a blue funk. It’s _ridiculous_ how quickly his mood shifts, dread coiling low in his gut and taking the form of butterflies. Not the good kind of butterflies because he fucking _sucks_ at trig.

He can hear the cumulative murmurs of _no_ and _fuck this shit_ spreading through the room and he’s surprised by how relieving it is, knowing everyone else _fucking sucks at trig._

Mr. Mundy’s an asshole. He’s a complete freaking douchebag who probably gets off on the look of dismay on his students’ faces when he’s giving out their papers, single-digit numbers sitting, delightfully big, at the top corner of each one. Because people not only fail his class, but they royally fuck up.

He’s also single, bald and shrivelled with age. And Steve’s hair _annoys him_. Steve knows it. His hair annoys everyone because it’s so luscious and pretty and _existent._ So he isn’t surprised when Mr. Mundy ruffles it and puts his paper on the desk before him with a frown that very thinly veils the superiority twitching the corner of his lips upwards. “Not surprised, Mr. Harrington,” he states, shaking his head before walking on. “Hargrove,” Steve can hear him say, vague over the sound of his blood rushing to his cheeks as he stares at the 23 glaring up at him from his paper. Steve feels like it’s _taunting him,_ tutting its tongue at him the same way his parents will once they find out how much of a failure he is at school.

Billy tips his desk onto its front legs to peek over Steve’s shoulder and peer at his paper. And Steve’s acutely aware of the cigarette and mint-laced breath brushing his ear as Billy eyes his paper. “That your grade or Moscow’s temperature in Celsius, dimwit?” he whispers, voice heavy with mockery.

Steve isn’t surprised, because Billy’s a _dick._ But no one seems to notice because he’s usually only a dick to _him_. He’s getting used to it though, doesn’t even have the energy to be offended anymore. “How much did _you_ score, genius?” He mumbles. It’s rhetorical. Mr. Mundy’s tests were fucking _impossible._ No one ever passed, and people who _did_ pass scored a 55% at the very best.

Ignoring the question like the pussy he is, Billy throws himself back in his seat, making its legs scrape hard across the marble floor and emit a sound as cringe-inducing as everything else he does. It has Steve clenching his jaw in utter annoyance.

As expected, Mr. Mundy looks pleased with all the long faces. He leans back against his desk and crosses his arms over his chest with pursed lips. “The results were… expected,” he says, faking disappointment, like he doesn’t take pride in the difficulty of his test questions. _Asshole._ Steve wants to tell him it’s not something to be proud of. Logically, the more students that fail, the shittier of a teacher he seems to others. “Must say, I’m surprised _Mr. Hargrove_ is the one to outdo you all,” he waves a hand in Billy’s direction and gives a nod of approval. He doesn’t _seem_ approving though. Looks like he’s promising Billy it’s the first and last time he’ll ever get through a test in his class.

Steve tamps down the surfacing shock, and looks over his shoulder at Billy, whose eyes remain on Mr. Mundy as he sucks his teeth, smirk lopsided and sharp. He doesn’t even look away from him as he reaches for his paper, where a beautiful never-been-seen-before 100, circled in red, is scrawled angrily.

Steve watches him as he rips a strip of the paper and delicately rolls it into a makeshift toothpick before placing it between his lips. It makes Mr. Mundy nearly _sneer_ with how much the trivializing action gets under his skin. And for once, Steve can’t blame him.

Then he’s pushing himself off his desk and clapping his hands to regain _some_ professionalism. Whatever introduction he’s saying goes unheard by Steve as he eyes Billy, like he’s seeing him in a whole new light. Hargrove’s _smart._ It’s either that or he’s really fucking good at cheating. Steve doubts it’s the latter. Considering.

Billy’s eyes lazily avert from the teacher to rest on Steve. “Whatcha lookin’ at, princess?” He asks, smug grin firm.

Steve sits up, turns in his seat. “You _passed?_ ”

“Obviously, you illiterate fuck,” Billy taps a finger on the three-digit number to punctuate the positive.

Steve doesn’t spare the insult a single thought, swiping his tongue over his lips as he eyes the paper for a few more seconds, thoroughly contemplating the significance of his pride.

He looks up at Hargrove, finds him smiling a little haughtier and thinks, _nope. not today, fucker_.

He turns back in his seat, can hear Billy’s breathy laugh. Drowns it the hell out.

...

His parents are displeased. _Beyond._

He smacks his paper onto the table they’re sitting at and walks off, hoping his flippancy is enough to shut them up.

But, well. Luck’s not on his side. "What’s this?” Steve’s dad asks. He sounds as careless as Steve is trying to let on.

Robert Harrington is as charming as any other lawyer. With black hair, greying at the roots. Thick eyebrows sit atop his judgemental hazel eyes that follow Steve around through thin-rimmed glasses. His personality is just as fun. All pejorative and hypercritical.

Steve doesn’t remember the last time he saw his teeth. “My trig test,” he answers, turning around. He shifts his weight to one leg, jacket slung over his shoulder with two fingers hooked into its collar.

“I know _what_ it is,” Robert lifts the paper between two fingers. “What’s _this?_ ” he taps his finger on the 23.

“See, dad. I don’t know if it was different back in your day but that’s my grade. Usually it’s written at the top of the paper to–”

“ _Don’t_ , patronize me, young man,” Robert cuts in, stern, a finger lifted threateningly. “After everything we’ve been doing for you, Steve? _This?_ ” he judders the paper.

“Yeah, dad, sorry,” Steve chuckles without humor. “I mean, jetting off for _work_ every two days is–” he shakes his head, waving a hand. “Great. Brilliant. Thanks for the sacrifice.”

His emphasis on _work_ doesn’t go unheard by his mother, who sits silently with hunched shoulders and pursed lips.

Steve loves her. Loved her last he checked. They’re not as close as they used to be but… he loves her. With her kind green eyes and curly brown hair and her many attempts at recapturing Robert’s affections.

He sighs, shrugs his shoulder. “I’ll do better next time,” he relents, just to get them off his back.

Robert looks pleased with the so-call promise, nodding once. “I’ll hold you to it, son,” he answers. He spares Mrs. Harrington a glance. “Your mother and I are leaving early in the morning,” he informs, like they didn’t just fly in last night.

“Yeah. Whatever,” Steve’s used to it. Reached the point where having them home is weird for him. It’s not that he cares much. Their family’s always been a little disconnected with no real familial bond. Just three people keeping to their business under the same roof. “Uh. Yeah, okay. Have fun.”

“Steven,” Robert says once Steve’s at the staircase.

Steve hates his full name. Hates it even more when he realizes his dad never bothered to know him enough to _know_ he hates it. “What?” He twirls on the heel of his sneakers to look at him.

“Don’t fail me," Robert says. It’s an order, not a request.

“And don’t forget to water the plants, honey,” Diane — his mother — says. Kind and sweet. _That’s_ a request.

Steve nods. “Ok.”

...

His parents fight that night. They try to be quiet about it, but it turns louder with each to and fro of anger. Steve mostly drowns it out with music but with every interlude between songs, he hears words like _“whore”_ and _“trust”_ and _“divorce”._

Typically, it ends with Robert slamming the front door shut and climbing into his Porsche.

And _atypically,_ it also ends with Diane cuddling with Steve. She apologizes for the noise and cards her fingers through his fluffy hair. “You need a haircut,” she says factually.

“No,” Steve mumbles. “That’s my best feature, mom.”

It makes her laugh. Usually, he wouldn’t enjoy this interaction. Would make him feel like a kid all over again. But now that he rarely sees her, he basks in it all.

They talk the night away, snack and listen to her trashy opera music.

He doesn’t mind.

...

He wakes up to an empty house.

_______

Steve corners Billy against his locker.

Well, _corner_ isn’t the right term because Billy doesn’t seem _cornered._ He just leans back, looks Steve over with the smirk he’s sporting twenty four seven and crosses his arms over his chest. “What can I do for you, o pretty one?” He has Romeo and Juliet tucked under his arm.

Steve swipes his tongue over his lips, giving their surroundings a cursory look before settling his eyes back on Billy. “I need you to tutor me,” he lets out, confident, head held high.

Billy’s brows rise. He gives him another once-over, languid and feather-ruffling. “Couldn’t hear you there, Harrington,” he says. “A little louder.”

Steve inhales sharply, running his fingers through his hair and disrupting his hair part line. “Look, I just need to pass Mundy’s class and you’re the only person…” he trails off, looking pained. “ _Smart_ enough to help me.”

Billy snickers, lifting a hand to scratch his nose. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” he says, then turns around to look at himself in the mirror glued on the inside of his locker.

“Then what do you want?” Steve hisses. Billy’s a literal fucking _dead-end._ “Money?”

Billy laughs, short and high-pitched, before turning to look at Steve. “There you are!” he effuses, all fake enthusiasm. “Was waiting for you to pull out the purse and loosen its strings like the spoilt rich kid you are.”

Steve scowls, looking every inch the spoilt rich kid Billy’s accusing him of being. “Maybe you can buy yourself something with _buttons_ ,” he quips. It draws a throaty laugh from Billy, one that abruptly cuts off before he’s stepping in closer. His voice drops low, the smell of cigarettes and peppermint flooding Steve’s senses. “Here’s what I want you to do, Harrington,” Billy says. He looks around them casually, jaw working on the gum between his molars. The sound irritates Steve boundlessly. “I want you to _beg_.”

And _that’s_ what scratches a crevice in Steve’s pride. Makes him shove Billy hard enough that his back hits the lockers with a metallic rattle. Billy laughs, a loud, _poisonous_ thing that reverberates throughout the clearing hallway. “Fuck you, Hargrove.”

“Hm. You’ll have to beg for that too,” Billy grins, unfazed, his voice choppy with laughter as Steve storms off.

...

It’s only a few days later, on a Saturday, that Steve caves in. He’s trying to study, trying to wrap his head around the main _concept_ of math.

Eventually, he piles his papers and pushes them aside. He stands up, paces his room for a good five, contemplative minutes, before he’s grabbing his jacket and plodding down the stairs to his Beemer.

He takes his sweet time, pep talks his dignity about sacrifices, and dreads the second the Hargrove residence comes into view.

He raps the door politely. Three knocks. Then steps back, holding his hands behind his back with a cordial smile.

When the door opens, he’s met with a woman whose hair resembles Max’s. Shorter and a little bushier but Steve sees the resemblance. “Hey,” he says, tone overly joyful.

Susan smiles, a tilt of thin dainty lips. “Hi,” she answers. “What can I do for you?”

Steve clears his throat and rises to his tippy toes to sneak a look over her shoulder. “Is Billy here?” He asks, distracted.

Her brows inch up her forehead, like she’s surprised anyone would come knocking at their door demanding they speak to _Billy._ Which is, well… fair.

“Of course. Come on in,” she moves back, pulls the door open and gestures inside. Steve steps inside, lips pressed into an awkward smile. He didn’t know what to expect when he came here. Maybe a shitty father and a drunken mother, step-mother, _whatever._ And Max. But Susan seems pretty sober. _Nice, even._

He trails after her.

“Who’s this?” Comes a gruff voice from the living room.

“Oh. This is Billy’s friend,” Susan answers, voice saccharine sweet.

The man sitting on the one-person sofa looks over his shoulder at Steve and sizes him up with fault-finding eyes. “What is he doing here?” At least Steve got the _shitty father_ part right. Kudos to him.

“Billy has _friends?_ ” Max questions. She _knows_ Steve and Billy hate each other, and it’s obvious by the playful quirk of her lips that she’s just teasing him. An inside joke or something.

“Well. Classmate,” Steve corrects awkwardly, waving a hand before rubbing it over his neck. “I need his help with studies.”

“You need _Billy’s_ help?” Max echoes, laughing at the absurdity. “Does he even know how to _read?_ ”

Good point. Steve didn’t know Billy had active neurons until a few days ago. “Yeah. Is he home?”

Billy’s dad doesn’t say anything, just turns back to his bottle of beer and TV screen. Susan places a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder, capturing his attention. “His room’s upstairs. You’ll know it when you see it.”

And. Yeah. She wasn’t lying. It’s hard to miss. The door’s quite literally _shaking_ with the riff of some Metallica song, has Iron Maiden’s “The Number of the Beast” album cover poster stuck to it with worn out tape.

Steve just— looks. There’s a lock on it. One that he runs his fingers over because is Billy dumb enough to actually install the door the wrong way round? He shakes his head and knocks. Doesn’t know if Billy can hear him over the music or if he’s choosing not to. So, he opens the door and walks in.

And he’s not surprised when he turns around and comes face to face with Billy. He’s pushed up against the door he just shut in under a second. “What the fuck, Harrington?” Billy hisses, low and dangerous but _loud_ over the upcoming interval. He presses his forearm across Steve’s collarbone, jaw drawn taut.

Steve lifts his hands in surrender. Like he’s taming a wild animal. “Chill, tiger. I just wanna talk.”

Billy’s hold loosens but not enough for Steve to move freely. “Did dad see you?”

“Uh, yeah?” Steve answers, confused. “He’s a dickhead by the way.”

Billy lowers his arm and steps back to turn down the music, giving Steve the time to at least adjust his jacket and straighten his back. “What do you want?”

“Listen,” Steve begins. He’s gesticulating with his hands, trying to put words together. “I— First I thought maybe you cheated your way through the test but it’s like, twelfth grade trig and it wouldn’t make _sense_ —” he cuts himself short. “I need you to help me out, okay? You owe me. For bashing my face in and all.”

“Give me one reason I should,” Billy replies, answer at the ready.

“I just told you— you _owe_ me.”

“A _valid_ reason*,” Billy repeats. He’s walking around his room, picking up random pieces of clothing, and if Steve didn’t know better, he’d think Billy’s trying to save face by tidying. But since Steve _does_ know better, he knows it’s just him putting on lordly airs, like he’s _too cool_ to look at Steve while Steve nearly grovels at his feet.

“I see my parents twice every half year,” Steve blurts. “I need to… _have_ something next time I see them. Something to make them… _proud,_ or whatever. Shut them up for a while.”

“Aw,” Billy tuts, turning to face him with a sardonic pout and fake puppy dog eyes. “That would be real fucking touching if I gave a shit about your familial life, pretty boy.”

Steve exhales heavily from his nose, dropping his sob act. “I’ll drive Max to the arcade so you can fuck around. How’s that?”

“Humdrum,” Billy murmurs.

“What do you _want?_ ”

“I told you what I want,” Billy answers in a drawl, teasing but serious. And— well. He _did._ But Steve didn’t think he was _serious_ about it. Somehow, saying please was the easiest thing anyone could do but the hardest thing _Steve_ could do. Because yeah, he was dethroned or whatever, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t— _raised like royalty._ He _knows_ how bratty it is, but saying please and sorry is probably harder than Mundy’s exams altogether. Those words aren’t even in the _margins_ of his dictionary for crying out loud.

“You want me to say please,” he says, like it’s a revelation.

Billy sucks his teeth, gives a lopsided grin, sharp and _infuriating._ He moves closer. And look, he’s a barely noticeable centimetre shorter than Steve but Steve still feels like he’s _towering over him_ as he steps in even closer and crowds him against the door. “Make it pretty and worthy,” he rasps, hands planted on either side of Steve’s shoulders. “Bonus points if you get down on your knees for me.”

Steve has to swallow his pride. He has to. He _has_ to. He takes a deep breath to steel himself, can feel his chest squeezing with the humiliation of it all. He can do it. It’s just a _please_. And it’s not like he cares about the _bonus points._ It’s _just_ a please. Just a please. He can—

He leans in close, nose nearly brushing Hargrove’s. Just five letters… or is it six? His mind isn’t _functioning_ anymore.

Billy’s smirk remains intact. He doesn’t seem unsettled by the proximity. If anything, his head tilts to the side like he can read Steve’s every thought. “C’mon, princess,” he sings in a slow murmur, chewing on his gum noisily. “I don’t have all day.”

It’s just a _please,_ but fuck Steve and fuck his high horse. “Get fucked, Hargrove.”

He expects a punch, or at least Billy to grab him by the scruff of his collar and throw him out like trash. But Billy goes still for no longer than a jiffy before he hums low in his throat, dips his head until he’s close enough that Steve can feel his every breath, fanning against his cheek, sinking into his pores, ghosting over the corner of his lips. It’s meant to _disconcert_ him or something, but Steve just feels a very mild discomfort prickling his arms with goosebumps. “You’re tough to break, huh?” Billy asks, all muted tones. “ _King Steve._ ”

Steve takes a shuddery breath. Because Billy sounds _admiring._ Fucking worshipful if Steve dare say it.

“And no one says no to a king. Am I right?”

Steve tries to look away, at his shoes, at the expensive Italian leather of them. Billy’s faster, always a second faster. Like a predator. He grips Steve’s hair and pulls his head back. “Tsk. Look at me,” he intones. It borders on _scary._ Steve’s losing grip of the reins. So, he looks at him. Oh, does he fucking look at him. Squarely, right in the eye, lips parted from the painful grip in his hair. Billy’s smile’s gone, the shadow of it lingering in the twinkle of his eyes as he stares at Steve. Like he’s seeing him in a new light. A better light.

“Watch the fucking hair, Hargrove,” Steve grits, scrambling to break the silence through clenched teeth.

And Billy— Billy _laughs._ It’s nothing like that maniacal laugh he let out back at the Byers’ home. It’s soft and breathless and _mirthful._ And he drops his hand from Steve’s hair and steps back. “Man, get the fuck out of my house,” he says, walking over to his bedside table and grabbing his packet of cigarettes. He props one between his lips and looks at Steve from beneath his eyelashes as he lights it. “Tomorrow. Five. Your place. Now _scram._ ”

Steve nods, fixing his jacket. “Yeah, OK. Thanks, man.”

“Get, _out,_ ” Billy snarls. And Steve sidesteps out the door before Billy’s empty can of beer can hit him in the head.

...

In hindsight, perhaps asking Hargrove to tutor him was a big mistake. In hindsight, he realizes he just gave Billy more of a reason to torment him. In fucking hindsight, Steve wants to die.

He idly tidies the living room, fluffs up the unnecessary number of pillows scattered all over the couches and draws back the curtains and turns the radiators on to keep the house warm.

Billy appears at his door at twenty to six because he’s an unpunctual, sluggish _fucker._ Steve barely has the time to open the door before Billy’s brushing past him with his usual swagger. “Damn, Harrington,” he says, surveying the interior with a tuned whistle. “Your parents the fucking Mansa Musa of Hawkins or something?” he goes on, shrugging out of his jacket. He’s not wearing much under, just a wife beater. Steve doesn’t really mind; he’s seen Hargrove in way less. He clears his throat to get _that_ image out of his head.

“The Mansa what?”

Billy snickers and, surprisingly, he hangs his jacket on the coat hanger instead of throwing it wherever. “You failed history too, pretty boy?”

Steve huffs a breath. “No,” he says, stubborn and short. And well, insincere. But there’s a difference. He’s not failing trig due to a lack of interest. Then, “Maybe.”

Billy laughs, delighted. “You really _are_ a bimbo.”

Steve smiles, overly fake, and nods. “Yeah. Ha-ha. You cracked a joke. Can we start?”

Billy drops it, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. Steve likes the sound of the metal of his rings grinding together. “Lead the way. Oh, but before we do–” Billy lifts a finger. “Your mom home? Tommy told me she’s smokin’ hot and your pops doesn’t give her the attention she deserves.”

And Steve – Steve hates himself for ever trusting Tommy with that info. He does _not_ need to think of Billy seducing his mom and toying with her just because he can, despite him knowing his mom; knowing she’d never even look at a kid like that. He also knows that if she were here, he’d have never told Billy to come over because yeah, she’s great. But she’s a bigot. Would condescend to Billy in a way that would have him frothing at the mouth. And well. on second thought… Steve would like to see it.

“Told you I barely see her,” he says instead. “And don’t be gross, dude.”

Billy tuts his tongue and winks, snapping his fingers and pointing them at Steve. Like _gross_ is his default and he’s proud of it.

...

Billy’s decent when he uses his brain. He’s serious and detailed but still slips in a few insults and coarse jokes every now and again. Which Steve should find annoying but instead figures it’s a more fun way to learn. Keeps him alert.

“You know the main functions and their values, right?” Billy asks absently as he scribbles away. “I don’t need to write them down for you.”

Steve tongues the inside of his cheek, staring at Billy’s ringed hand until it comes to a stop. Billy heaves a breath. “Answer me, dunce.”

Steve combs his fingers through his hair to get it away from his face. “I got a twenty-three, Billy. That’s like, the highest score I’ve gotten, like, ever, in Trig.”

“Yeah, well that wasn’t my question,” Billy answers. “Do you know what the sine of zero is?”

Steve groans. “I was probably getting high in the janitor’s room with Tommy.”

Billy puts the pen down and turns in his seat. “I’m gonna set some ground rules here, Harrington,” he says, “if you have a fuckin’ question, you ask it. If you don’t get something, say it. If you’re gonna keep dodging my questions ‘cause it wounds your pride that I’m fuckin’ smarter than you, tell me now so I can leave. I’m not here to play around.” Steve doesn’t even know why Billy _is_ here.

He slumps back in his seat and scratches his forehead. “Fine,” he mumbles. “Ok. I thought that was pronounced sin, not sine. That’s how much I know main functions.”

Billy looks like he’s biting back a smile. He licks over his lips before nodding once. “I can work with that,” he states. He unhooks his glasses from his undershirt and slips them on and for some fucked up reason, Steve loses breath for a second, feels the air rush out of him, and his brain short circuits and he can’t stop looking. Billy’s noting down the values of radian and he’s focused, brows drawn together and lips mouthing the words he’s writing. “Once you’ve learnt these by rote, everything’s easier.”

Steve nods, wedging his hands between his knees for a lack of anything else to do. “So uh, your dad…”

Billy stills for a split second, barely noticeable if Steve wasn’t tracing his longhand with his eyes as he wrote ‘don’t mix these up, retard’ in a bubble above the cos and cot. Then Billy finishes off the last letter and draws mini hearts all around the slur. “What about him?” he asks, sounding a little distant.

Steve wants to ask if he’s always that much of a dick. He wants to get on Billy’s tits by saying something like ‘I guess being an asshole runs in the genes’ but opts for something more civil. “He got some big plans for you?”

Billy blinks, then lifts a brow and subtly averts his gaze to look at Steve over his glasses. “You suck at geography too? Don’t know that nose of yours belongs within the borders of your pretty face?”

Steve – wow. Steve’s _impressed_ by how much of an asshat Hargrove can be. Just when he thinks he’s reached the end of the asshattery belt, Billy defies the rules by adding another notch.

He doesn’t say anything. Billy isn’t even expecting a reply, attention already back on what he’s writing.

...

Billy isn’t half bad at teaching, that’s something Steve realizes three lessons into their arrangement. “Would you want to become a teacher?” he asks suddenly. It’s a question that’s been on his mind for some time, inching to the tip of his tongue every time Billy does something _teacherly_ like pushing his glasses up his nose or tapping a pen on the table a few times to regain Steve’s attention when Steve’s head’s in the clouds.

“I hate kids,” Billy states in response. “I’d rather be a hobo.”

Steve’s lips make an O and he nods once. He wants to ask more. Wants to ask what Billy wants to be. But Billy’s just like a rubix cube. The more you try to solve him, the more difficult he gets. So, Steve turns his attention to the equation on paper. “Uh. We use the identity tangent x equals sine x over cosine x here, right?”

“Right,” Billy nods his confirmation. “Not bad, pretty boy.”

Steve gives a small smile, barely an upturn of his lips. “No _dimwit_ or _fuckwit_ this time?” he asks, playful, as he looks over at Hargrove.

Billy shrugs, nose twitching. “You’re outgrowing those nicknames,” he says, pushing his rectangular glasses up his nose.

“Haven’t outgrown _pretty_ yet, I guess,” Steve doesn’t look at him saying this, but he feels Billy’s eyes on him, sees him roll his eyes from his peripheral.

“Can I ask somethin’?”

Steve’s confused. Billy never _asks_ for permission to do anything. He just… does it. Not that Steve doesn’t appreciate the politeness. It’s just different. “Yeah, sure.”

“What are _your_ plans?” Billy questions. “For the future, I mean. Gonna get out of this pigsty of a town and make it big in your pops’ firm or something?”

Steve licks his lips, keeping his eyes on his paper as he toys with the corner of it. “I guess.”

“You…guess?” Billy arches a brow, although he knows Steve isn’t looking at him to see it. “This isn’t I spy with my little eye, Harrington.”

“Look, I don’t know,” Steve comes out with. It’s louder and a little harsher than his usual tone. “I don’t know. Dad wants me to pursue _law_ and mom wants me to be an accountant or a doctor or something _respectable_ so she can brag in front of her friends. And I–” he cuts himself off, mouth parted around absolute silence.

“You?” Billy prompts. “What do _you_ want?”

Steve swallows. “It doesn’t matter.” _It’s bullshit. Dreams are bullshit. I’m bullshit._ “Can we just – can we go back to this shit?” he pulls his trig book closer and tucks his chair under the table.

Billy’s eyes linger on him for a few devastating seconds. Makes Steve feel like he’s transparent and he can see every stain blemishing the fragile glass he’s made of. “Ok,” he eventually lets out. “Where were we?”

...

Billy doesn’t show up the next day, or the day after, or the one after that. Not at school, and not at Steve’s door.

“Your brother okay?” he asks into the rear-view mirror, eyes on Max.

“What? Yeah. Why?” Max answers, confusion lining the space between her brows.

“Nothing,” Steve mutters. “Hasn’t been coming to school, that’s all.”

Max shrugs. “He doesn’t care for school. Too busy working out nonstop.” And that’s – that’s not an image Steve needs right now. He’s been all muddled up since he realized how many times a day his mind drifts to Billy. “Spent his entire pay on a punching bag last week.”

“Oh.”

...

Steve’s cautious. Hyperaware of his every thought throughout the day less they stray to a certain blond guy in glasses.

By now, he knows that his physical attraction to Billy isn’t normal. But he’s trying to stave off just thinking about what said attraction means. He has enough shit going on in his life to have some sort of sexuality crisis.

The doorbell rings and the last person Steve’s expecting at his door is Billy. Because one, Billy never uses the doorbell, says it’s for classy fucks who want to seem classier. And two, Steve thought Billy’s given up on him because he hasn’t shown up in a little over a week.

His hands are messily wrapped in bandages that look at least 3 days old. If Billy’s gotten into a fight, Steve has to know the name of the dude. Just so he can send his condolences to the family. “Hey,” he says on a breath.

“Hi. Up for a lesson today?”

Steve clears his throat and looks over his shoulder.

“Unless you have company in there,” Billy cocks a brow and Steve shakes his head.

“No uh. I’m just—” he scratches his neck. “Cooking.”

Billy’s scarred brow lifts to join the other. “Cooking?” He echoes, mockful. “This I need to see. Get outta my way, pretty boy.”

Steve lets him in. Billy sits on the counter, watching him chop vegetables with a towel slung over his shoulder. “Tangent of thirty?” He asks idly, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head back. He looks like a stripper a second away from pulling some rope to have a bucket of water tipped over him.

“Pi over six,” Steve answers reflexively, then looks at him for confirmation.

“Congrats. You’re now the proud owner of more than one brain cell,” Billy grins. Steve’s getting used to his insulting sense of humor.

“What happened to your hands?” Steve asks absently, keeping his eyes on the pepper he’s chopping into perfect squares.

“Got into a fight with Dan from English. Little cunt had it coming. Ugly piece of shit,” Billy sits up and strokes his bandages as he says it, like he’s savoring the memory or something.

“You beat him up because he’s ugly?” Steve asks, incredulous.

“No. I beat him up because he’s a piece of shit.”

“What did he do?” Steve fires back. And Billy falls silent. He hadn’t planned it this far. “Because I’m _pretty_ sure Tommy was the one bragging about how he bloodied him with a fisticuff. Unless he’s hogging _your_ victories now.”

Billy’s jaw works. He opens and closes his mouth like he hasn’t decided on an answer yet. Then, “I was too rough with workout.”

Steve lets out a laugh, short and _girly._ It’s unrestrained and has Billy looking away with a glare. “You really tried to write it off as you being cool,” Steve breathes out between laughter.

“Yeah, shut the fuck up.” There’s no heat behind Billy’s words. He’s ps-ps-psing at Webster from the counter. Steve spares him a glance over his shoulder as he stirs the sauce in the pan.

He doesn’t care hiding his smile when Webster hops up on the counter and presses his nose into the bandaged palm of Billy’s hand with a delighted purr.

...

“Here, let me change that,” Steve walks over to the table Billy’s sitting on and holds a hand out.

Billy looks at him, confusion scribbled all over his pretty face. “What?”

“Your hands,” Steve nods his chin at them, making a _gimme_ motion with his own.

Billy looks reluctant for a second, but then he’s throwing the rest of his M&Ms into his mouth and holding a hand out.

Steve takes his time. He undoes the bandage and lets out a sympathetic hiss at the black and blue he finds under there. “You’re a freak,” he states.

Billy smirks then wags his tongue in that nasty way of his. “Y’don’t know the half of it, Harrington.”

Steve clicks his tongue, running a thumb over each knuckle to check for fractures. Presses down and looks at Billy for any sign of discomfort.

“Are you a nurse now?” Billy eventually says through gritted teeth.

Steve rolls his eyes and reaches for the roll of bandages. “You’re welcome, Billy,” pause. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”

“I like it tight,” Billy counters, smirk unwavering. It makes Steve laugh under his breath. Always trying to maintain pretences. “And what? Do you have some sort of certificate in first aid or somethin’?”

“No,” Steve answers calmly, eyes not leaving his handwork. “My parents travel a lot. I used to get myself into all kinds of trouble. Had to learn how to take care of myself when they’re not around to kiss my boo-boos.”

Billy opens his mouth, then closes it, jaw setting.

“It’s fine,” Steve says, because he’s a nice person who doesn’t want pity. “Independence and all.”

Billy looks up at him. Keeps looking. Has Steve’s hands shaking a little. Steve spares him a quick glance, offers a tiny smile. “Besides, it’s the least I can do now that you’re giving me free lessons, huh?”

“Why did Wheeler break up with you?”

Steve feels his heart skip a beat. He wasn’t expecting such a huge leap in subjects. _Because I’m bullshit._ “I’m sure _Tommy_ told you all about it,” he says in lieu of a direct answer.

“Yeah. Tommy’s not a reliable source,” Billy shakes his head as Steve puts his hand down and reaches for the other. “Said something about Freak Byers and cameras and a fight over Wheeler Whore which is… unlikely because that bitch ain’t special.”

Steve snorts. “He tell you about the naked pictures he took of Nancy and me?” He asks. “Or was there another reason I broke Jonathan’s camera?”

Billy looks surprised. “Naked?” He echoes. His eyes momentarily shift to Steve’s chest, like he’s _imagining_ what Steve looks like under all that Wrangler and Levi. “Wheeler has a ten-year old’s body. Bitch’s nose would hit a wall before her chest does.”

 _“Hey now,”_ Steve warns, tightening the bandage a degree to discomfort.

“What? You still hung up on her?”

Steve swallows the lump in his throat, ignoring the question altogether. “Comfortable?” He asks.

Billy pulls his hand back and spreads his fingers with a hum. “Decent. Wanna try it?” He makes a lewd jacking off motion and has Steve shoving him lightly in the shoulder. Billy moves sloppily with the impact, letting out a laugh. “Thanks, princess.”

...

Steve wants to get under Mundy’s skin. Fuck, he wishes he was born a worm so he can eat him alive when he’s six feet under. He _hates_ him. Hates the usual bigotry you find in miserable old fucks who decide to be teachers only to channel their misery into their students.

“Sir,” he suddenly says, waving a hand. “Can’t we solve this by rewriting the fractions with the common denominator sine x cosine x first?” he asks. “I mean, it’s longer but it’s acceptable, right?”

He knows he’s right. Billy drilled the concept of _common denominator_ into him not two days ago. He looked _good_ , his hair tied back into a bun, glasses propped on his nose and lips— what the _fuck?_

Steve can feel panic heat crawling up his back. He needs to stop. Needs to remind himself that he’s a _guy._ And guys are _jealous_ of Billy, not cognizant of his handsomeness. That’s just weird. Steve spares a quick second to look at Becky’s legs beneath her skimpy skirt. He exhales a relieved sigh. _Yup. Still wanna get between them._

Mundy turns from the board to look at Steve, a deriding smile on his lips. “Excuse me?”

Steve fidgets, adjusting his position. “I mean, if we multiply each term by a fraction that equals one, with either sine or cosine in both the numerator and denominator. Then uh,” he swallows, looking down at his book, blood rushing to his face so quickly he feels a little dizzy with it. “Then we add the two fractions on the right. Then, using the Pythagorean identity you just wrote down,” he waves a hand in circular motions at the whiteboard, “we um, we replace the new numerator with one and carry on from there.”

Mundy, just like everyone else in the classroom, stares at him like he’d just grown a second head. Steve can feel the tips of his ears turn hot. He maintains eye contact with Mundy though, who eventually nods. “That’s correct,” he says with a heavy heart.

“You been studying behind our backs, Stevie boy?” Tommy calls out from all the way across the room.

Steve waits a few minutes before looking over his shoulder at Billy. Finds him smiling at his book, one leg sticking out of his desk, pen tapping against his bottom lip. His posture’s lazy, as lazy as his gaze when it lifts to Steve. Then he _winks_ and Steve quickly faces the front of the classroom, powerless to the smile that tugs at his mouth.

...

When Billy first arrived in Hawkins, he was quick to dislodge Steve from his royal seat and take his place. In the process, he stole his friends and his reputation and his _keg record_. But he didn’t thieve him of _everything_. Steve still has the sass and carelessness he had before Nancy broke up with him and before Billy came along. So, with newly required confidence, he plops down at his old table in the cafeteria.

He expects them to throw a fit. And he’s ready to be an asshole about it. Ready to say something like ‘I don’t see your fucking nametag anywhere’ when Tommy or Carol or freaking Vicki show any aversion to his sitting down.

All he gets though is a bump in the shoulder from Tommy, followed by an “about fucking time, Stevie boy.”

And things are _good_. He looks over at Billy, finds that he doesn’t care either, using his tongue to toy with the toothpick between his lips as he curls a strand of his hair with his finger, looking into an antique hand mirror. Carol reaches over and snatches half his sandwich from his tray. Steve doesn’t mind.

They talk like they never fell out. And _things are good._

...

He doesn’t know _when_ it happened, but somewhere along the way, they started studying _together._

Billy had said he’d stick around so Steve could ask him about the things he finds difficulty understanding. It started at him loitering for ten, fifteen minutes, then gradually spent more time there. And now Steve’s writing homework at the living room table with Billy pacing behind him droning on in _Spanish_.

He has an oral test the next day. And like, Steve had _plenty_ of time to process that Billy’s smart, but his brain’s still finding a little difficulty wrapping itself around just _how_ smart he is.

He stops paying attention a few minutes after Billy starts introducing himself in Spanish and _listens._ He likes languages, finds them pretty interesting and Spanish is, well, _hot._ And Billy has an _accent_. He rolls the r’s and gives his words the right intonation and it’s _doing things to Steve._

He blames it on the language. Not the speaker.

“How are you so good at Spanish?” He lets out, not really moving to look at Billy.

“The Spanish colonized Cali in like, the fifteen hundreds. Chicago’s full of ‘em. Mom’s friends were all spics so I was forced to learn at some point,” Billy pauses, “I’m a social person with high moral values.”

Steve snickers. “You just used _high moral values_ and a racial slur in one sentence.”

Billy clicks his tongue and Steve just _knows_ he’s winking and doing finger guns. “Where are _you_ up to?” He leans down behind Steve and Steve’s acutely aware of their nearness. His body acts on its own, lungs holding onto his inhalation tight, his cheeks flushing, heart picking up speed. And when Billy gives a breathy laugh as he chews gum, Steve hates himself for pressing his legs together to stop himself from getting worked up. “This triangle’s isosceles, not equilateral, pretty boy.”

Steve forces himself to focus on the words leaving Billy’s mouth. “Oh,” he exhales, sounding positively _fucked out._ “Oh. Um—”

“So if we draw a perpendicular from D to AC..” Billy trails off.

“It’ll cut AC in two symmetrically… and bisect angle D,” Steve goes on. “Right?”

“Right,” Billy murmurs. “And?”

“And the two internal angles B and C add up to ninety degrees,” Steve sounds like he’s having a life-changing epiphany. He turns his head, doesn’t realize how close they actually are until their noses are a hair’s breadth away from touching. And Billy looks at him, jaw working slower on the gum. His glasses are sitting low on his nose, hair lifted into a ponytail. There’s a stray curl hanging down his forehead. Steve wants to brush it away, tuck it behind Billy’s pierced ear. Fuck, he needs to _stop._

Billy’s jaw tightens under Steve’s scrutiny. Steve can hear the leather squeak under Billy’s grip on the backrest of his seat. Then Billy’s laughing softly and tapping a finger on the textbook. “Homework ain’t gonna write itself.”

“Right— Right. Yeah,” Steve turns away, clearing his throat as he hooks his feet around the legs of his chair and moves closer to the table.

Billy ruffles his hair playfully, lets his nails scrape over his scalp in a way that has Steve drawing his lip into his mouth. “Idiota.”

“Fuck off.”

“You got that?” Billy teases.

“Fuck you.”

...

He doesn’t dwell on the loneliness that settles in his chest the second Billy’s Camaro zooms out of sight. He drowns it out with loud music and a bottle of whiskey.

...

It takes Steve two weeks to realize Billy’s always wearing bandages around his hands. He wants to ask so _so_ badly but doesn’t. Has to bite his tongue every time he sees Billy’s grip tightening on the pen and discomfort crossing his features.

Then he breaks.

“Why do you still have those?” He asks. “Haven’t seen you rough anyone up.”

He expects a _none of your business, Harrington_ or a glare to shut him up. But Billy hides his hands… or does his best to. He clears his throat and doesn’t look Steve’s way as he mutters a _rough on the punching bag,_ keeping his attention elsewhere.

Steve hesitates, fingers twitching. “I— Can I—” he’s never been good with words. And that being the case, he reaches over and takes one of Billy’s hands. Slow and deliberate and a part of him _aches_ when Billy’s hand goes pliant in his.

He licks his lips, pointedly avoiding Billy’s eyes as he undoes the bandage. And it’s bad. His old bruises yellowish purple while his new ones are red and scabbed. Steve swallows, turns Billy’s hand and finds crescent shaped cuts in his palm.

Then he looks up at Billy, eyes soft and eclipsed by his hair. “You do this on purpose.” It’s not a question. Billy _knows_ that. But he tries to rebut. To salvage what’s left of his pride by pulling his hand back roughly with a huff.

“Stop acting like you’re smart enough to be a fucking psychologist or some shit,” he snarls. It’s a knife to stitches. A sound leaves Steve’s throat unsolicited. It hurts. So much more than he expects it to.

Billy doesn’t look _pleased_ with his blow, but he doesn’t do anything to fix it, just shoves the book in Steve’s direction and tells him to _solve it_ as he rebandaged his hands.

Steve doesn’t. He tries to. And with every crossed-out attempt, he feels tears well up in his eyes because he’s not smart enough. He’s not good enough. Not strong enough. He’s not anything enough.

His tears blur his vision and he puts his pen down to take a deep breath, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I think you should go,” he says, voice strained with inhibited emotion he’s going to let out the second Billy’s out the door.

Billy looks reluctant. His hand tightens and loosens for a few seconds before he’s getting up and leaving.

Steve breaks apart as soon as he hears the door shut. He buries his face in his hands.

And he cries his insecurities to sleep.

...

Their next lesson is awkward. Steve quietly scribbles down his answers and Billy bites his nails beside him, knees apart and one arm crossed over his chest.

“It’s cathartic,” he suddenly says.

Steve hums in question, not bothering to look at him. He knows he’ll want to punch his face to a pulp if he does. Over the past few days, his sadness had iced over with an untameable anger that’ll only end in a bloody fist if he so much as glances in Billy’s direction.

“The pain. It’s a good distraction,” Billy answers in a monotone.

“Why do you do it?” He asks, just as toneless as Billy. “You a masochist or some shit?”

Billy takes a breath and lifts his eyes from his nails to Steve. “I do it because I deserve it,” he says. “Self-flagellation. I’m a good Christian.”

“Bull _shit_ ” Steve snarls. It makes Billy’s eyes widen momentarily. “Why do you do it?” Steve _does_ turn to face him now.

Billy juts his chin stubbornly, leg beginning to bounce. He picks at his nails, examining them with a scowl.

“And why did you just miraculously start doing it when you started _tutoring me?_ ” Steve goes on. “What? Am I some _charity case_ to you? You hate me so much you have to hold it in until you’re home so you can take it out on an inanimate fucking object?”

Billy gapes.

“Are you _seriously_ that much of a pussy, _King Hargrove?_ ” It’s like a dam was just removed and the words won’t stop flowing.

“Steve—”

“Can’t even confront me—”

“No. Just lis—” Billy lurches from his chair to take a hold of Steve’s upper arms. “Just _listen._ ”

Steve listens. His eyes are watery, lips parted around the rest of his rant.

“Listen,” Billy breathes. “You’re— You’re not stupid,” he’s on one knee, thumbs pressing into Steve’s arms. “You’re _not._ ” he repeats when Steve snickers his disbelief. “You just- you don’t have the aptitude for certain subjects and that’s _fucking fine._ Yeah? What you wanna be?”

Steve swallows, lowering his eyes to his twiddling thumbs.

“Huh?” Billy ducks his head to hold his gaze. “Anything?”

“I—” Steve takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t know. I guess I always thought I’d grow up to be a professional musician.”

Billy _smiles._ And it’s not a smirk or a pitying simper or a mocking upturn of his lips. He’s _smiling._ All laugh lines and crinkly eyes and teeth. “Yeah?” He whispers.

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “I have a cheap shitty guitar. It’s upstairs collecting dust.”

Billy licks his lips and lowers his hands from Steve’s arms. “That why you’re growing your hair out, pretty boy?” He asks. “Wanna join a glam metal band and do hair flips during your solos?”

Steve laughs. It’s quiet but it’s genuine, and he runs his fingers through his hair, fucking _kickstarting_ Billy’s heart. “What about you?” He asks. “Plans?”

Billy shrugs. “Savin’ up to move back to Cali.”

Steve nods slowly. “Maybe you should let me pay you for the lessons.”

Billy shakes his head. Then he brings himself to his feet and taps a nail on the exercises. “Point me to one of your bathrooms, rich boy,” he says.

Steve points to the staircase. “Up the stairs, forth— fifth room on the right.”

“Thanks.”

Billy climbs up the stairs. And like… he’s not the best example of integrity. After he takes a piss, he takes his time looking into the rooms, whistles his liking. He pockets a gold bottle of nail polish he finds on what he assumes is Mrs. Harrington’s dresser. He knows Steve’s room when he gets to it. It’s plaid and ugly. Full of weird ornaments Steve’s parents probably thought he’d appreciate. Steve’s guitar is leaning against the wall. Webster’s sitting on his bed.

“Hey, Web,” Billy murmurs. The cat rolls onto his back and stretches, a sign he wants tummy rubs. And Billy has a soft spot for the feline (and his owner but he won’t admit to that), so he walks over to him and scoops him up in his arms, kisses his head and tickles him between the eyes.

He climbs down the stairs. “Fucking rich people,” he grouses as a form of greeting.

Steve turns his head to look at him. Webster’s claws are deep in Billy’s leather jacket, trying to reach Billy’s dangling earring and get it into his mouth. Steve quite literally _melts_.

“I stole your mom’s nail polish,” Billy states, bending down to let Webster go. He carefully pulls out the cat’s claws from his jacket, lifting his eyes to Steve.

“You _what?_ ”

“Nail polish,” Billy says. He stands and reaches into his pocket to pull the bottle out, shakes it for emphasis. “She won’t mind, will she? Not like it’s made of melted gold or something.”

Steve’s answering silence makes Billy stare. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right? I can buy my college tuition with this?”

Steve snorts. Billy doesn’t bother putting it back because… well, he’s not the best example of integrity. He plops down next to Steve and unscrews the bottle. And Steve’s never seen him do anything so delicately. His glasses are pulled back into his hair, he’s humming a tune under his breath, he’s painting his nails and Steve can’t look away.

...

Steve hasn’t seen Billy in two weeks. Max’s been quiet, terse. And he _knows_ Billy hates school and is probably skipping in favor of smoking pot in an empty parking lot or something. But he needs to make sure, just to put his mind at rest. “Does Hargrove know his attendance like, seriously affects his golden grades?”

Max startles. She looks up, eyes wide. “Uh. Yeah. I don’t know.”

“Why do you care about Billy all of a sudden?” Mike asks from the spot beside her, voice stifled around his sandwich.

“He’s a piece of shit,” Dustin mumbles under his breath, not bothering to look up from his book.

Will and Lucas sit silently beside each other.

“He’s just um—” Max clears her throat. “Sick. Y’know. Not used to Hawkins’ weather changes and all.”

Steve doesn’t believe her for _one second._ So he climbs into Billy’s room through the window that night. And Billy— Billy’s sleeping soundlessly on the bed. His lips parted and his eyelashes fluttering.

And—

And it takes Steve a minute to notice the bandage on his ear and the state of his hair— or what’s _left of it_.

“Holy, shit,” he lets out.

Billy’s eyes snap open and turn to him in under a second, then they ease shut again and his body relaxes into the mattress. “What the heck are you doing here, Harrington?” He asks, languid with sleep, as he slings an arm over his face.

“I—” Steve swallows. _I was worried about you._ “I had a question about uh—”

Billy huffs a laugh. “Couldn’t it wait?”

“I thought you got sick of me,” Steve answers truthfully, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “People tend to do that.”

“Not me,” Billy answers. He pats blindly on his bedside table before taking a hold of his packet of cigarettes. “What do you want?”

“What happened to your ear, man?” Steve asks. “And your _hair._ ”

And his hands are bruised _again._

Billy removes his arm and sits up to rummage through his drawers for his zippo. He stands up and Steve can’t look. He can’t _fucking—_

He’s not smart. He knows that. But it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out what’s going on here. “Your back,” he says, eyeing the bruises and cicatrices marring his back. “Fuck. _Fuck_. Are you okay?”

Billy lights his cigarette and stands at his dresser to pour himself a drink. He turns around and leans back against it, pressing his smile to the rim of his glass as he sips at it. “I’d do the same thing if my kid walked in with gold on his nails.”

“You wouldn’t,” Steve protests. He takes a step closer. “You have to tell chief Hopper. I’ll tell him. You can press charges. You— You can go back to your mom. She’s in Cali, right?”

Billy puts his glass down and takes a drag of his cigarette, sizing Steve up with his eyes. “You think she’d want a fucking homo under her roof?”

Steve doesn’t even hesitate. And it _terrifies_ him. “You can stay with me.”

Billy looks momentarily surprised, but then he’s laughing quietly, a rumble from his throat. “So I can write your homework?” He asks playfully.

Steve swallows. He doesn’t find any of this _funny_. Billy finally makes sense to him. “Is he home?”

“Nope. Wednesday’s date night. He takes Susan out for dinner, woos her again, and fucks her brains out at some dirt-cheap motel. They’ll be back tomorrow.”

Steve didn’t need to imagine _that._ He starts pacing, like _he’s_ the one suffering a calamity.

“Simmer down, pretty boy. You’ll have a nervous breakdown.”

“How are you _calm_ about this?” Steve yells, waving a hand. “Today it’s you, tomorrow it’s fucking _Max._ And you’re just sitting there with your arrogant fuckboy front like there’s nothing _wrong_ with the way your own dad treats you!”

“Maxine’s safe,” Billy waves a hand, grunts when the ash at the tip of his cigarette falls onto his thigh. “She’s not his and Susan wouldn’t tolerate it.”

“Susan _knows?_ ” Steve hisses. “And Max? Does _she_ know?”

“Found out when the pops…” Billy trails off and makes a jerking motion near his ear, referring to his earring being ripped out.

Steve takes a deep breath. Now he knows why Billy’s always been a walking talking mulleted popped vessel.

“The night you—”

“Yeah,” Billy interrupts. “Sorry about that by the way. Didn’t mean to take it out on your pretty face.”

They don’t say anything for a few moments.

“So,” Steve lets out, just to break the silence. He claps his hands, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “I guess I should— I should go. If you need anything or change your mind about Hopper-.”

Billy gives a noncommittal shrug that says _nah, not interested at the moment._ He puts the cigarette out on the table behind him before throwing the butt in what’s left of his drink.

“I’ll see you at school?” Steve asks, hopeful.

“Yeah,” Billy nods. “See you at school, princess.”

He laughs when Steve bumps his head on an attempt to climb out the window. “Just take the front door, dipstick. No one’s home.”

...

“It looks good.”

“Hm?”

“The hair,” Steve elaborates, not looking away from his textbook. “You can stop playing with it like it’ll grow back if you pull it hard enough.” And it _does_ look good. Different, but good. Besides, Billy needs the reassurance.

Billy puts his hand down, clearing his throat. “It was my best feature.”

Steve snickers. “I’m gonna have to disagree with you there, big guy,” he sits back and turns the page, eyes perching on Billy. _Have you seen yourself? Your smile? Your stupid fucking eyes?_ “That mullet was ugly as shit.”

“Was _not._ ”

“It’ll grow back. How’s your ear?” Steve asks. It makes Billy lift a hand and fondle the bandage.

“Fine. Good thing he went for this instead of the taint,” he murmurs. “Would’ve single-handedly ended his bloodline.”

Steve inhales sharply. “The what?”

Billy sucks his teeth and smirks, sitting back and spreading his legs like he’s _teasing him._ “Taint, Harrington,” he crudely bucks his hips.

Steve nods slowly. “Uh-huh,” he exhales, reflexively licking his lips. He dwells on the idea for just a second before clearing his throat. “I’m- stuck here.”

Billy stands up and closes the space between them to lean down behind Steve, holding his hands at the small of his back. Rubbing at them until they burnt. “You gotta find the appropriate identity to use.”

Steve mumbles something under his breath, hunching his shoulders. It makes Billy smile, albeit subtly. “Try sine a plus b equals sine a times cosine b plus cosine a times sine b.”

Billy places his hands on Steve’s shoulders while Steve solves the equation, thumbs digging in. “There you go,” he coos.

“You never told me what your plans are,” Steve states absently.

“I wanna be rich,” Billy answers. “Move back to Cali. Study chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” Steve echoes. He didn’t know what he’d expected from Billy. Maybe modelling since he was _really_ good at showing off his body to willing and unwilling audiences.

“Yeah. I wanna be a forensic scientist,” Billy answers. He sounds timid, like he’s too small for his dreams.

Steve smiles minutely. He likes Billy like this. Vulnerable and human.

“Let’s see what mess you’ve made,” Billy peers over his shoulder and starts humming under his breath as his eyes skim over the paper. “Good job, princess,” he finally says.

Steve kisses him.

It happens fast. One second they’re looking at each other and the next Steve’s pressing his mouth to Billy’s and lifting a hand to cup his jaw. The angle’s clumsy, their noses bump in Steve’s haste to get their mouths together and Billy—

Billy can’t breathe. Everything around them blurs out, everything he _is_ reduces to the plump softness of Steve’s lips against his. He lets himself kiss back, parts his lips and lets Steve lick into him. It’s hot— hot and slow and overwhelming and Billy can’t fucking _breathe._

They don’t even part when Steve brings himself to his feet and presses Billy back against the table, draws his bottom lip between his teeth and tugs. Billy keens, fisting the front of Steve’s shirt. He wants to push him away, wants to pull him in closer. Wants to sink into him. Wants. He _wants_ so bad.

It takes him every ounce of willpower to push Steve away. “What the fuck, Harrington?” He snaps, breathless.

Steve looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Lost and _hurt,_ and Billy can’t look at him. He grabs his keys off the table and leaves.

...

He neglects his MMA gloves that day. Savors every shot of pain that zips up his arm each time his fists collide with the punching bag.

...

“I want you,” Billy says quietly into the classroom.

They’re both in detention after playing too rough on the court. Steve’s tonguing the inside of his cheek and Billy has a blossoming bruise on his. They’ve been silent for half an hour and apparently, Billy reached the end of his rope before Steve did.

Steve freezes. All the words he wants to hurl evaporating in under a second. He looks at Billy. “What?”

“That what you wanna hear?” Billy asks, guttural. Like he’s reprimanding Steve and not.. fucking _confessing._ “That I fucking want you more than I’ve ever wanted— _anything._ And I _hate it._ ”

Steve’s lungs burn with the breath he’s holding. He can’t even twitch a muscle as he stares at Billy’s profile. The way his jaw keeps clenching and his knuckles blanch with every tightening of his fists.

“I thought I’d get sick of you like Wheeler did if I hung around long enough to see all your stupid fucking flaws,” Billy stands up, starts pacing because he can’t deal with his emotions while sitting still. “But then I saw the way your face scrunches up any time I bring up _logarithmic functions_ and how you scratch your chin to act like you’re thinking when you didn’t even get my question and I wanted to fucking hate you so badly that I punished myself every time I—”

“Billy—”

“—every time I thought of you and every time my dad called me a _fag_ and I fucking revelled in every slash of his fucking belt on me— because I _deserve it_.”

The room rings to silence. Steve can’t breathe. He processes everything Billy’s saying and lags at the belt.

Billy runs both hands through his hair, groans at how fast the process is because of how short his hair’s become. “Happy now? Halle-fucking-lujah.”

“He—” Steve doesn’t know what to do with anything Billy’s just unpacked. “You—”

_You want me._

“It— It’s not wrong—” Steve gets out. “It’s not wrong to want—”

“You?”

“A guy,” Steve corrects. “It’s not—” it _is._ It’s like wearing red to a fucking funeral.

“You can’t even say it,” Billy huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he looks away. He’s grimacing, looks like he regrets ever opening his mouth.

And Steve— Steve’s never been good with words. So he stands up and walks over to where Billy’s standing. He takes one of his clenched fists into his hand and brings it up to his lips. And he kisses each battered knuckle individually, eyes fluttered shut.

He hears Billy’s breath hitch and hears him swallow.

“It’s not wrong,” he says quietly against Billy’s skin. And Billy— _fuck._ Billy tilts his hand and cups Steve’s cheek. It smells of the leather of his steering wheel and the rust of his rings and the cigarettes Steve tasted on his lips two days before. He could stay like this forever.

He turns his head, presses a kiss to the rough palm of Billy’s hand.

Anyone could walk in and see them like this, but Steve doesn’t care. Fuck Hawkins. Fuck Neil. Fuck everything save for the feeling of Billy’s skin against his.

...

“Mr. Harrington.”

Steve looks away from the window and at Mr. Mundy. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to have to request you redo your test,” Mr. Mundy lifts Steve’s paper. There’s a 77 sitting proudly at the top of it. And like, Steve isn’t _averse_ to repeating the test but he _knows_ Mundy will intentionally make the questions ludicrous, teetering on the borders of _not even in the curriculum_ just to revel in the distress on his face. “Um. I didn’t cheat,” he says.

“I’m not accusing you of cheating,” Mundy answers. “I’d just prefer you repeat the test before my eyes.”

"Yeah. But why- "

“Don’t talk back, Mr. Harrington,” Mundy murmurs, putting the paper down on his desk and rounding his desk. “I don’t tolerate disrespect in my classroom.”

“I’m not _talking back_ ,” Steve rebuts, sitting up. “I just want to know _what I did_ that made you-”

“Why?” Billy asks from all the way across the classroom.

“That’s not your concern, Mr. Hargrove.”

“Yeah, it is. Y’all spend your fucking life preaching about teamwork so, as Harrington’s _teammate_ ,” he shrugs. “I don’t see the point in a repetition.”

Mundy pushes his glasses up his nose. “You’re not in a position to have an opinion about this.”

“But I’m in a position to go to the principal. You’re discouraging your students by suspecting their intelligence and I’m speaking for everyone when I say that can seriously affect a student’s self-esteem and performance. I think that’s a valid complaint. Don’t you?”

Steve feels heat blossom in his chest. He can barely hold back his smile as he taps the eraser of his pencil against his desk. Mundy looks at Steve. Then at Billy. He looks like he might have a stroke any second. “Very well,” he eventually lets out, wiping a napkin over his sweaty forehead.

“And while we’re at it,” Billy calls out. “Favoritism, especially that depending on how much cleavage a chick’s willing to show…” Billy hums, basking in the attention the classroom’s giving him. “I think that’s a valid complaint too.”

...

“Dad home?”

“Uh. No,” Max looks at him, wary of his even _talking to her_. “Why?”

“No reason,” Billy shrugs, “need help with that?” he nods his chin at her. She’s quick to get up and walk over to him so he can do her hair.

“I hate having to dress all girly girly,” she mumbles as he sections her hair in two with his nails.

“You don’t have to,” he nudges his knee against her back. “Sit sideways, dipshit.”

He plaits the first half into a dutch braid, grousing about how long and tiring it is. “You’ve got split ends too. Gross.”

Max rolls her eyes. “At least I have hair.”

“Yeah, shut the fuck up,” Billy mutters. “Don’t be such a bitch when your hair’s in my hands,” he gives her hair a tug.

“Dolling up for the black kid?”

“He has a name,” Max says roughly.

Billy breathes a laugh through his nostrils. “He’s just a color to Neil,” he says under his breath. “You be fucking careful he doesn’t find out. You hear me?”

“Yeah. Okay. Chill,” Max grunts. “Loosen it.”

“Be thankful I’m not charging you, shitbird.”

“Just like you’re not charging Steve?” Max retorts. And like, fuck her and her smart mouth. When Billy doesn’t answer, she tries turning her head to look at him, makes him tug a little too hard on her hair to keep her still, to keep her from seeing the heat he’s certain is painting his cheeks red.

...

“Have you ever been with a guy?”

Billy stops petting Webster and looks up from _Pride and Prejudice_.

Steve turns in his seat. “Back in California.”

“You mean have I ever fucked a guy?”

“Sure,” Steve shrugs like _whatever._

“No,” Billy answers. He shifts uncomfortably. “No.”

Steve hesitates, drawing a lip between his teeth. “A- A girl?”

“Never far. When I got myself pierced— I was shitfaced and my friends dared me to get my dick pierced and like, I don’t have an ID.”

Steve blinks.

“And the piercer— she was like thirty something. Pretty lady, from what I remember.”

Steve feels like he knows where this is going.

“And she said we could work something out and—” Billy takes a breath to anchor himself, then waves a hand like it’s _no biggie._ “She sucked me off or whatever.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen- turning sixteen,” Billy shrugs.

Steve’s heart drops. “I— are you- are you okay?”

Billy grins. “I’m not a _girl_ , Steve. I’m fine.”

Steve swallows. “It’s statutory rape,” he says. “And you were drunk- and underage.”

“And a _guy._ The law doesn’t care. Things like that shouldn’t even _affect_ a guy. We take pride in fucking older women,” Billy says.

“Rape is rape. How much of the bullshit you just spewed is you and how much of it is your dad?” Steve grits. He takes a breath then, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry.”

Billy racks his fingers through his hair and tilts his head back, placing his book face down on his lap. He shuts his eyes. “Back in Cali- my old man found my journal. Saw all the shit I said about my— my attraction to- y’know. Not girls. I had a- person. Not a girl, obviously. He found out. I was admitted to the hospital that day. Once I was discharged, we came straight to Hawkins. That’s why we’re here.”

“That’s why you keep..” Steve runs a hand over his knuckles. “You weren’t lying when you said self-flagellation.”

Billy cackles. “Yeah. Yeah. But fuck god, I don’t believe in him.”

Steve looks guilt-stricken. He looks down at his twiddling thumbs. “Sorry I kissed you,” he makes sure to look at Billy. He owed him that much.

Billy tilts his head to squint an eye open and look at him. “I’m not.”

Steve inhales sharply, eyes flickering down to Billy’s lips.

“I’ve told you all about my teenage angst. What about you?”

Steve shrugs. “Dad’s a grade A asshole. And a cheat. Mom’s— good. Fundamentally. She um. She wanted a girl,” Steve swallows before exhaling a shaky breath from his lips. “She got pregnant. Wanted to- _did_ name her Rosie. I was the last to carry her. She- um. She died. Pneumonia. My parents were devastated. Couldn’t look at each other— or me. For weeks. Maybe they—” Steve laughs softly, combing his fingers through his hair. “Maybe they wished it was me. Instead of her.”

Billy’s eyes soften. He sits up and leans forward to take Steve’s hands in his. “Hey,” he coos, “look at me.”

Steve looks up.

“For all its worth, I’m glad you’re here,” Billy says.

Steve smiles, smacking Billy’s hand benignly. “And it’s crippling. How lonely it gets in this house. So, thank you. For hanging out with me.”

Billy’s brows inch up his forehead. “I’m here, princess. Wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to sleep in your castle. Queen sized beds and all.”

“Shut up.”

“The bedposts encrusted with diamonds or some shit?” Billy taunts. Just to see Steve laugh.

...

Billy sends a message with Max telling Steve he won’t be able to drop by the following week. And Steve, in spite of feeling a little grousy about it, is glad Billy at least told him instead of going silent on him for days on end.

He’s walking back and forth in the living room, eating a poorly made sandwich with his history book in his other hand when the bell rings.

“Just a sec!” He muffles around his mouthful of food. He puts his book down and finishes the last of his sandwich, then he’s plodding over to the door barefooted, licking his fingers.

He swings it open. And—

And there’s a guitar out there. Leaning on the brick wall with a paper tucked between its strings and frets. Steve arches a brow and looks around.

He takes it in, waits till he’s washed his hands before pulling the paper out and unfolding it.

 _happy birthday, pretty boy._ _all you gotta do now is grow your hair out. you owe me vip tickets. have some mindblowing sex and think of me._

_—the sleazy fuck from math class x_

Steve shakes his head, swiping his tongue over his lips. He looks up, has to. Because whatever he’s _feeling_ right now, it’s filling him to the brim. He runs his fingers over the strings, ventures a strum, thumbs the socket installed in its side.

He thinks he might be able to love Billy.

...

Steve slumps sideways against the locker beside Billy’s, report card in hand.

Billy lifts his brow pointedly at the paper. “So?”

Steve licks his lips and hands it over. Watches as Billy squints, absently pulling his glasses down to prop them on the bridge of his nose. Then he’s smiling, lopsided and wide. He looks up at Steve. “Knew you had it in you, Harrington.”

Steve shrugs. “I had a _really_ good tutor,” he states, drawing a laugh from Billy. “So thank you.”

“Oof,” Billy snickers. “Did you just say _thank you_?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, tough stuff,” Steve pats his bicep.

“Guess you won’t be needing me anymore,” Billy turns back to his locker.

Steve clears his throat. “Yep. I’m my own brain now.”

Billy laughs and shuts his locker. “I’ll see you around, rich boy.”

...

Billy appears at Steve’s door a week later, an hour past midnight, his hair a mess and his eyes bloodshot and he goes, “Can’t be home right now.”

Steve opens the door wider for him.

“No,” Billy says, voice guttural. He sounds like he doesn’t know what he wants, so Steve grabs his jacket and keys and steps out into the chilly air with him.

“Where’s your car?”

“Confiscated,” a pause. “He took my keys and wallet.”

Steve nods, once. “Does he know you’re out?”

Billy’s silence is answer enough. So Steve holds a hand out. It’s an offer, one he wouldn’t mind Billy turning down. Billy gives a small laugh. “Not one of your girls, Steve.” He’s putting his hand in Steve’s anyway.

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”

They walk. They walk and walk and _walk_ until the silence becomes unbearable. “You can live with me.”

Billy hums, playing contemplative although they both know his answer’s no. “Wouldn’t want to taint your princely home, your majesty.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Billy’s hand shifts in his, has Steve panicking for just a second before Billy’s interlacing their fingers, swinging their hands between them. He’s a fucking _sap._

“Dad’s a lawyer,” Steve tries again. “He can help you. In return for— everything you did. Y’know.”

“You’re relentless,” Billy comments. “I don’t wanna. Drop it, yeah?”

Steve does.

He really does. He does until he’s driving Billy home. He does until Billy’s leaning over to brush his lips over Steve’s, whispering a _thank you_ between them, and he does until Billy’s greeted with his dad on the porch.

He _does._ But then Neil’s back-handing Billy hard across the face and Steve’s fucking _sick._ He’s tired of standing idly by while Billy’s being _unmade_ by his father. Eroded. Fucking rotting in his grip. So he gets out of his car and Billy’s telling him to _go._ But Steve doesn’t. Won’t let Billy crumble in his father’s fucking _claws._ And he’s punching Neil. Once, then twice. Then Neil’s trying to punch back and Steve’s fantastic at blowing punches but pretty mediocre at dodging them. So Neil’s fist collides with his jaw. He hears it crack under the impact. But he doesn’t stop.

He remembers every scar and bruise he’s seen on Billy, painting him black and blue. And he _knows_ Neil can’t give what he’s taking because he thinks Steve’s underage. And he uses it to his advantage. Up until Billy’s prying him off, yelling for him to stop. Max’s on the porch, shouting that she called the cops, and Billy’s pulling Steve back against him, arms wound tightly around him. And Steve’s crying. Max’s crying. Neil’s on the ground, fist not as bloodied as his face.

“I’ve got you, calm down,” Billy’s whispering. “You’re okay.”

 _But you’re not,_ Steve wants to answer. He doesn’t. He focuses on breathing, eyes falling shut at the comfort of Billy against him and Hopper’s _what in the fuck’s going on here?_

...

“Don’t sue,” Billy says.

Steve looks over at him, slowly lowering the ice-packet from his face.

“Will _you_?”

“He’s my _dad,_ ” Billy answers. Desperate. So desperate. “He’s all I have. He’s all _Susan_ has. Don’t fucking sue. Please.”

“I won’t,” Steve says. _Just for you. Just for Susan._ “Not unless he lays a fucking finger on you again. I swear to god I’ll kill him. And from the way Hopper threatened him, I can tell he has no problem putting him behind bars.”

Billy gets up. Closes whatever space there is between them and kneels down in front of Steve. “C’mere,” he pulls Steve down and presses a kiss to his lips, tasting the blood on them. It’s soft and hesitant. Everything Billy Hargrove shouldn’t be. And Steve kisses back.

He feels like he’s floating and grounded all at once. Wonders what Billy would be like between his soft silken sheets. If he’d work him apart with a gentleness no one’s ever given him or if he’d fuck the violence out of himself. A breathless sound escapes him, and Billy swallows it, wounding his fingers in Steve’s hair.

Steve’s veins throb with need, cold fingertips brushing Billy’s neck. He can feel Billy’s heartbeat beneath his touch, rapid and desirous and so in fucking sync with his own that Steve _wants to_ get down on his knees. Wants to worship every inch of Billy. Wants to dismantle him and put him back together. Wants to stitch his wounds with kisses and whispers and die a million deaths beneath the weight of his body.

Billy pulls back, but doesn’t put much space between them. He’s looking between Steve’s eyes. His pupils dilated, a slim line of blue surrounding them. Then he draws Steve in for a timid hug, pressing his face into his shoulder.

And Steve loves him.


End file.
